The evening before the day on which the wedding was to be, Lady Cecilia was in Lady Davenant’s room, sitting beside the bed while her mother slept. Suddenly she was startled from her still and ever the same recurring train of melancholy thoughts, by a sound which had often made her heart beat with joy — her husband’s knock; she ran to the window, opened it, and was out on the balcony in an instant. His horse was at the door, he had alighted, and was going up the steps; she leaned over the rails of the balcony, and as she leaned, a flower she wore broke off — it fell at the general’s feet: he looked up, and their eyes met. There he stood, waiting on those steps, some minutes, for an answer to his inquiry how Lady Davenant was: and when the answer was brought out by Elliott, whom, as it seemed, he had desired to see, he remounted his horse, and rode away without ever again looking up to the balcony.
Lady Davenant had awakened, and when Cecilia returned on hearing her voice, her mother, as the light from the half-open shutters shone upon her face, saw that she was in tears; she kneeled down by the side of the bed, and wept bitterly; she made her mother understand how it had been.
“Not that I hoped more, but still — still to feel it so! Oh! mother, I am bitterly punished.”
Then Lady Davenant seizing those clasped hands, and raising herself in her bed, fixed her eyes earnestly upon Cecilia, and asked,—”Would you, Cecilia — tell me, would you if it were now, this moment, in your power — would you retract your confession?”
“Retract! impossible!”
“Do you repent — regret having made it, Cecilia?”
“Repent — regret having made it. No, mother, no!” replied Cecilia firmly. “I only regret that it was not sooner made. Retract! — impossible I could wish to retract the only right thing I have done, the only thing that redeems me in my inmost soul from uttermost contempt. No! rather would I be as I am, and lose that noble heart, than hold it as I did, unworthily. There is, mother, as you said — as I feel, a sustaining — a redeeming power in truth.”
Her mother threw her arms round her.
“Come to my heart, my child, close — close to my heart Heaven bless you! You have my blessing — my thanks, Cecilia. Yes, my thanks, — for now I know — I feel, my dear daughter, that my neglect of you in childhood has been repaired. You make me forgive myself, you make me happy, you have my thanks — my blessing — my warmest blessing!”
A smile of delight was on her pale face, and tears ran down as Cecilia answered—”Oh, mother, mother! blind that I have been. Why did not I sooner know this tenderness of your heart?”
“And why, my child, did I not sooner know you? The fault was mine, the suffering has been yours, — not yours alone, though.”
“Suffer no more for me, mother, for now, after this, come what may, I can bear it. I can be happy, even if — —” There she paused, and then eagerly looking into her mother’s eyes she asked, —
“What do you say, mother, about him? do you think I may hope?”
“I dare not bid you hope,” replied her mother.
“Do you bid me despair?”
“No, despair in this world is only for those who have lost their own esteem, who have no confidence in themselves, for those who cannot repent, reform, and trust. My child, you must not despair. Now leave me to myself,” continued she “Open a little more of the shutter, and put that book within my reach.”
As soon as Miss Clarendon heard that her brother had arrived in town she hastened to him, and, as Lady Davenant had desired, told him of all the reports that were in circulation, and of all that Lady Cecilia had spontaneously confided to her. Esther watched his countenance as she spoke, and observed that he listened with eager attention to the proofs of exactness in Cecilia; but he said nothing, and whatever his feelings were, his determination, she could not doubt, was still unshaken; even she did not dare to press his confidence.
Miss Clarendon reported to Lady Davenant that she had obeyed her command, and she described as nearly as she could all that she thought her brother’s countenance expressed. Lady Davenant seemed satisfied, and this night she slept, as she told Cecilia in the morning, better than she had done since she returned to England. And this was the day of trial ——
The hour came, and Lady Davenant was in the church with her daughter. This marriage was to be, as described in olden times, “celebrated with all the lustre and pomp imaginable;” and so it was, for Helen’s sake, Helen, the pale bride —
“Beautiful!” the whispers ran as she appeared, “but too pale.” Leaning on General Clarendon’s arm she was led up the aisle to the altar. He felt the tremor of her arm on his, but she looked composed and almost firm. She saw no one individual of the assembled numbers, not even Cecilia or Lady Davenant. She knelt at the altar beside him to whom she was to give her faith, and General Clarendon, in the face of all the world, proudly gave her to his ward, and she, without fear, low and distinctly pronounced the sacred vow. And as Helen rose from her knees, the sun shone out, and a ray of light was on her face, and it was lovely. Every heart said so — every heart but Lady Katrine Hawksby’s — And why do we think of her at such a moment? and why does Lady Davenant think of her at such a moment? Yet she did; she looked to see if she were present, and she bade her to the breakfast.
And now all the salutations were given and received, and all the murmur of congratulations rising, the living tide poured out of the church; and then the noise of carriages, and all drove off to Lady Davenant’s; and Lady Davenant had gone through it all so far, well. And Lady Cecilia knew that it had been; and her eyes had been upon her husband, and her heart had been full of another day when she had knelt beside him at the altar. And did he, too, think of that day? She could not tell, his countenance discovered no emotion, his eyes never once turned to the place where she stood. And she was now to see him for one hour, but one hour longer, and at a public breakfast! but still she was to see him.
And now they are all at breakfast. The attention of some was upon the bride and bridegroom; of others, on Lady Cecilia and on the general; of others, on Lady Davenant; and of many, on themselves. Lady Davenant had Beauclerc on one side, General Clarendon on the other, and her daughter opposite to him. Lady Katrine was there, with her “tristeful visage,” as Churchill justly called it, and more tristeful it presently became.
When breakfast was over, seizing her moment when conversation flagged, and when there was a pause, implying “What is to be said or done next?” Lady Davenant rose from her seat with an air of preparation, and somewhat of solemnity. — All eyes were instantly upon her. She drew out a locket, which she held up to public view; then, turning to Lady Katrine Hawksby, she said—”This bauble has been much talked of, I understand, by your ladyship, but I question whether you have ever yet seen it, or know the truth concerning it. This locket was stolen by a worthless man, given by him to a worthless woman, from whom I have obtained it; and now I give it to the person for whom it was originally destined.”
She advanced towards Helen and put it round her neck. This done, her colour flitted — her hand was suddenly pressed to her heart; yet she commanded — absolutely commanded, the paroxysm of pain. The general was at her side; her daughter, Helen, and Beauclerc, were close to her instantly. She was just able to walk: she slowly left the room — and was no more seen by the world!
She suffered herself to be carried up the steps into her own apartment by the general, who laid her on the sofa in her dressing-room. She looked round on them, and saw that all were there whom she loved; but there was an alteration in her appearance which struck them all, and most the general, who had least expected it. She held out her hand to him, and fixing her eyes upon him with deathful expression, calmly smiled, and said—”You would not believe this could be; but now you see it must be, and soon. We have no time to lose,” continued she, and moving very cautiously and feebly, she half-raised herself—”Yes,” said she, “a moment is granted to me, thank Heaven!” She rose with sudden power and threw herself on her knees at the
general’s feet: it was done before he could stop her.
“For God’s sake!” cried he, “Lady Davenant! — I conjure you—”
She would not be raised. “No,” said she, “here I die if I appeal to you in vain — to your justice, General Clarendon, to which, as far as I know none ever appealed in vain — and shall I be the first? — a mother for her child — a dying mother for your wife — for my dear Cecilia, once dear to you.”
His face was instantly covered with his hands.
“Not to your love,” continued she—”if that be gone — to your justice I appeal, and MUST be heard, if you are what I think you: if you are not, why, go — go, instantly — go, and leave your wife, innocent as she is, to be deemed guilty — Part from her, at the moment when the only fault she committed has been repaired — Throw her from you when, by the sacrifice of all that was dear to her, she has proved her truth — Yes, you know that she has spoken the whole, the perfect truth—”
“I know it,” exclaimed he.
“Give her up to the whole world of slanderers! — destroy her character! If now her husband separate from her, her good name is lost for ever! If now her husband protect her not—”
Her husband turned, and clasped her in his arms. Lady Davenant rose and blessed him — blessed them both: they knelt beside her, and she joined their hands.
“Now,” said she, “I give my daughter to a husband worthy of her, and she more worthy of that noble heart than when first his. Her only fault was mine — my early neglect: it is repaired — I die in peace! You make my last moments the happiest! Helen, my dearest Helen, now, and not till now, happy — perfectly happy in Love and Truth!”
THE END
ORLANDINO
Initially published in 1848, a year before her death, Orlandino was Edgeworth’s final novel. The author had been emotionally devastated by the 1845 Irish Potato Famine, which lasted for years and resulted in the deaths of more than one million people and the flight of another million. The population of Ireland decreased by nearly a quarter and the suffering was acute and long-lasting. Edgeworth desperately sought to raise funds by any means possible, including writing letters and petitions to ask for aid and attempting to organise plans to help her suffering compatriots. She decided to write another book to raise money for the disaster and the short children’s novel Orlandino was the result.
The narrative introduces Orlandino, a young boy, who runs away from school and joins a travelling theatre, after being enticed by the manager, who makes great promises to the child before duping him and rendering him wretched. Orlandino becomes one of the star attractions of the company, but he continues to be cheated by his employer and he turns to drinking and dissipated behaviour. He encounters Walter, a boy of a similar age, early in the text and their relationship is an important dynamic in a work in which acts of generosity and kindness are central factors. He also believes he may have encountered his long lost sister and that his mother, who was abandoned by his dishonourable father, needs his help. Edgeworth creates a tale of redemption and emphasises the need for a steady purpose and strong determination if one is to help a friend — an important message for the suffering people of Ireland at the time.
The first edition
Depiction of the Irish Potato Famine
ORLANDINO.
“A PUPPET-SHOW — a raree-show!” cried little Bessy, bursting into the breakfast-room where her uncle was reading the newspaper, and where her mother was waiting for the tea-urn. “Oh, mamma! mamma! never mind the tea, or the spoonfuls! Oh come, come — do! mamma, and speak to this man! Will you, dear mamma? Pray, mamma! — Pray! — he is at the hall door.”
“The person is gone from the hall door, my dear,” said Bessy’s sister Amy, entering with a certain degree of composure becoming her advanced time of life; for she might be between ten and eleven: “the person is gone; and he was not a man, but a boy.”
“I am sorry he is gone,” said Bessy, “whether he was man or boy; but I think he was a man, only a very little man, for I heard Thomas telling Walter that there was a showman at the door; and he gave Thomas a playbill, mamma — a very long playbill — as long as my arm, and longer. Do tell mamma, Amy, for you know all about it.”
“I do not know all,” said the discreet Amy. “Walter has the playbill, and here he comes.”
“And here it comes,” cried Bessy.
Walter came in, and held high above his head a long printed paper. And he read aloud, in the voice of a town-crier —
“On Monday, the 15th instant, will be performed, at
CASTLETOWN BELLEVUE,
A SUPERB DIVERTISSEMENT.
Morning Exhibition.
A Magnificent Double Tent, in form of an Amphitheatre, to be pitched in the park.
By particular desire,
O R L A N D I N O,
CHILD OF PROMISE — CHILD OF PERFORMANCE.
Astley Outdone, — Orlandino in India — Oriental Scenery — Tiger Hunt — Royal Tiger springing upon Captain Smith — Orlandino saves him.
Orlandino at Paris — Grand Tournament — Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, in costume.
Orlandino in Russia — Meeting of Murat and the Cossacks — Murat crowned King of the Cossacks — Attempt to Assassinate Murat — Orlandino saves him.
Exeunt omnes to the tune of
‘Ou peut on etre mieux qu’ au sein de sa famille.’
Interlude.
Music — God Save the Queen, and other Pieces, with the wonderful performance of Rule Britannia by the Self-modulating Melodious Lion’s Head.
Evening Exhibition.
Dissolving Views — Fireworks — Burning of Moscow — Fall of the Kremlin — General Blow-up.
Orlandino in Ireland — Fairy Castle — Fairy Cap — Everything set a Dancing — Cups and Dishes Fly about — Hunchback Released.
Finis.”
“Hunchback released,” repeated Bessy; “oh this must be our old Edwin,
‘In Britain’s isle and Arthur’s days, When midnight fairies danced the maze.’”
“I’d rather have ‘Dissolving Views!’” cried Amy.
“Royal tiger springing upon Captain Smith!” cried Bessy.
“Grand tournament!” cried Amy.
“Burning of Moscow!” they both together vehemently exclaimed.
Calmly Walter said, “The double tent, in form of an amphitheatre, must be well worth surely. I should like to see that.”
“Mamma, will it be a real tiger?” cried Bessy.
“Oh, mamma, can we go?” said Amy.
“Oh, mamma, mamma! — uncle, uncle!” cried Bessy. “We can go! we shall go! — on Monday!”
“Morning and evening!” said Amy. “It is not only an evening play: all morning there is to be acting. Oh! I hope it will be a fine day!”
“Murat king of the Cossacks superb, I am sure,” said Walter. “I know all about it in Scott’s Napoleon. I shall like to see all the fine horsemanship, and the throwing of the javelins.”
“What is the price of the tickets, Walter?” said his uncle.
Walter threw the playbill from him. “It’s impossible,” said he. “Tickets seven-and-six-pence — children half-price!”
“Then I go half-price,” cried Bessy. “Will you, Amy?”
Amy reddened. “I should not mind being called a child either, but then Walter and mamma” —— She stopped, and a blank silence ensued. Walter looked towards his uncle, but could not see his face — the newspaper was up before it. He looked at his mother; but he would not ask her; he knew she had no money for amusements, she had given so much in the time of distress.
The uncle put aside his newspaper — threw it behind him — took out his pencil. Mamma, who seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of his purpose, handed to him the cover of a letter, and he began to calculate, as it was obvious, and to write down the result. On those figures, thought Walter, our fate depends! And so thought Amy, and so thought Bessy; and not one word was uttered, hardly a br
eath drawn, while the uncle, with one leg crossed over the other, wrote, and finally summed up the total, and then sat and thought. Walter longed to ask, “What does it come to?” but he made “I dare not” wait upon “I would.” It was a conscientious, not a cowardly, “I dare not.”
“Twelve miles there, and twelve miles back,” said his uncle; “and now that poor Standard and Strongbow have been sold in these hard times” ——
“We must take post-horses,” said Walter: “it cannot be:” and he flung away the playbill. “I give it up.”
He said it steadily; but though he spoke like a man, he felt like a boy. His uncle went on calculating.
“To Castletown Bellevue, twelve miles, and the gate. Twelve miles there, and twelve back — half-price back to be sure we may allow. But there is no moon, and with that half-cut hill, we could not venture it at night; so we must allow for staying there all night, and then breakfast” ——
“But we should not want breakfast,” cried Amy and Bessy: “we should never think of breakfast till we got back here. Do not you think so, Walter?”
“Breakfast! who could think of breakfast?” cried Walter.
“Sire! ‘Il ‘n’y a pas de circonstance ou on ne dejeune pas,’” said his uncle, laughing. “But, Bessy,” said he, turning to her, and asking a question which seemed as far as possible from the present purpose—”Bessy, how many rows of a garter did you knit one morning before breakfast?”
“A hundred and fifty, uncle!” cried Bessy in an exulting tone.
“And how much did you earn by it?”
“I cannot say that I earned — really earned anything by it,” said Bessy; “because mamma did not pay me as she would have paid a work-woman. She gave me more for them than she would have paid for them if she had been buying them in the shop. She gave me a whole half-crown!”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 280